


Festive Ficlets ~ Gramander

by AntiGravitas



Series: Festive Ficlets [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Shopping, Christmas traditions, Cozy fics, Fluff, Found Family, M/M, New Year Resolutions, New Year's Eve, Snow and Ice, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/AntiGravitas
Summary: A selection of Christmas, winter and New Year's themed Gramander ficlets for the holiday season, featuring much fluff and all things festive.Posting one a day until the New Year.
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Series: Festive Ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069169
Comments: 78
Kudos: 126





	1. 20th Dec - Christmas Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> I intend this to be a twelve days of Christmas run, with a ficlet a day until New Year's Eve. We'll just see how that goes due to my customary inability to keep to anything resembling an ordered schedule. For what it's worth, I do already have the first five written!
> 
> Three of the ficlets will be timestamps that go on the end of Nature of The Beast, so I'm in two minds as to whether I'll post them in this set, or only on the end of that fic for the people who like their animagi. 
> 
> Regardless, all of these are intended to be extremely fluffy feel-good Christmas, winter and New Year fics. They have a max rating of T so far, but I will notify in the pre-chapter notes if the rating changes for any reason.

Christmas in New York is not quite what Newt is expecting. He’s used to the bustle and clamour of Diagon Alley in the festive season, the shop fronts lit up with Christmas trees and Yule logs, Muggle seasonal iconography all intertwined with much older symbols of midwinter powers from a distant past. All of it jumbled together into one disorganised but cheerful whole. New York is something much different. 

Percival takes him the first time, and the first thing that strikes Newt is that you need a permit simply to get in, and that the permit comes _after_ the secret entrance. Percival does his usual smooth flash of documents and Newt smiles in what he hopes is a guileless manner as he hurries to stay within the protection of the Director’s shadow. 

Twelvetrees, Percival calls it, or Twelvetrees Avenue - named for the father, not the daughter you understand, good friend of Rappaport he was - is New York’s answer to Diagon Alley. But where Diagon Alley leans its way crookedly between the streets of London, Twelvetrees is a ramrod straight path of modern architecture, from the towering buildings that Newt’s come to associate with New York, to the glowing electric street lamps set at regular intervals down either side of the broad avenue. The only thing that’s missing are the honking, fuming mechanical contraptions the Muggles drive around, traffic being restricted entirely to pedestrian and the more normal horse and Hippogriff-drawn carriages. 

The sheer scale of the place sets Newt’s sense of direction whirling - he’s never been very good at finding his way in cities - and if not for Percival’s help on that first visit he’d never have found his way that time either, straight street or not. At least he’d probably never have found his way _out_ again. They’d strolled arm-in-arm down the sidewalk, past storefronts lit up with festive decorations - gleaming white trees decked out in crystal and glimmering with light from little glass baubles enchanted with _lumos_ spells, past pubs, no! _bars_ , as they call them over here, all of them spilling out the delicious scent of foods from all over the world. Shop after shop of magical marvels and more basic considerations such as robes and kitchenware, but all of it festooned with seasonal decorations.

The second time Newt visits Twelvetrees it’s on his own. He’s left Tina and Queenie behind, despite both of them offering to accompany him, wanting to do so in fact, even if neither of them do celebrate Christmas. He’d been quite touched by the offer, but at the end of the day he’s on a mission to find the perfect present and some small and very insistent part of him keeps shouting about how presents are personal and maybe if he finds something it should be for just him and the person receiving it. Newt’s not sure of his reasoning really, Christmas shopping has never been high on his list of things to do, and in all honesty he normally foregoes the entire season. But this year, _this year_ it’ll be different. This year he really does have someone worth shopping for.

Twelvetrees Avenue may be startlingly modern on first glance, but its magical nature quickly asserts itself once a person steps back and really takes notice. The familiarity of the wizarding world is present in the signs that hang from the store fronts, where the eyes of a painted dragon follow the people that pass below, or a carved cat flicks her tail as she steadies the cauldron advertising the apothecary beneath. Newt wanders the sidewalks, peering into each brightly lit store front and wonders what he’s going to get for a man who already has so many material things.

Percival Graves is a hard man to buy for. He’s sufficiently well heeled that buying him pocket watches or magical paraphernalia is a venture well outside of Newt’s humble wallet, and although Graves is somewhat of an aficionado of fine firewhisky it feels like such an impersonal gift to Newt. Like something his work associates might buy for him. And of course ties and tie-pins and cufflinks, well, Newt will freely admit he lacks the sharp eye for style that Percival has in abundance, and the last thing he wants to do is make things awkward by getting him something that clashes outrageously with his exquisite taste. 

No, what he needs is something special. Something that he can give to the man that has everything already well within his reach. Something genuinely _personal._

When he finds it, his hand hovers for a very long time before he finally picks the item up. Then he spends so long looking at it that the store clerk comes over to ask him if he needs anything and Newt, embarrassed by the attention, flees with it to another part of the store, still undecided, wondering if he dares, if the very idea is foolishness incarnate. He stands hidden in a corner of the ridiculously immense store, shielded by a selection of ladies cloaks, and looks down at the potential gift in his hands.

It’s been a year since Percival returned to work, some nine months since they started walking out together, eight since Newt moved in to Percival’s monstrously upscale townhouse and just never left. Crazy, breakneck speed, Theseus had called it, then asked if Newt was all right, no, _really_ all right? Newt only half-smiles at the memory. It _has_ been wild this last year. Wild and ill-advised and apparently completely out of character for the both of them, but then, who are other people to know what’s out of character when it comes to he or Percival? No-one really, when you get right down to it. Both of them, somehow, in their own special ways have made absolutely sure of that.

He buys the gift, a hard-wearing sunhat that will serve a man well in any tropical clime in which he should find himself, and then feeling much lighter about his decision heads off for lunch at one of the many fine eateries along the Avenue. 

Of course out on the street he runs almost directly into Percival. It makes him jump even though his gifts are securely wrapped in paper and obscured by their bag. He had, after all, also decided to pick up the best firewhisky he can afford, if only to give himself some reassurance that Percival will like at least one of his presents. 

Percival greets him with genuine surprise, warmth in his eyes and in the brief squeeze of his arm around Newt’s shoulders, and together they make their way towards a cafe for some lunch.

After they’ve eaten, Newt sits back in his chair and watches the man sitting across from him. Framed by the steamed up window and the reaching branches of the Christmas tree next to their table, he looks completely relaxed and for the first time in months there’s a contentedness to him that Newt hadn’t really realised had been missing. Undoubtedly the Grindelwald incident had taken a great deal out of MACUSA’s Director, on so many levels both obvious and obscured, and it’s only now, nearly a year later he can truly see him for the man he had been before it all happened. 

Newt watches Percival pouring more tea, something he’s picked up from Newt, and thinks again how extraordinary a turn his life has taken. A year ago he’d been more alone than he cares to admit, than he’d really understood all truth be told. And now here he is with this remarkable man at his side, sharing his life and all that goes along with it. It’s a strange thing, something he’d never have imagined for himself, and yet, here they are. He thinks of the sun hat wrapped so carefully amidst the bags beneath the table, and about what it really represents. Something daring, or foolish, certainly the kind of gesture that Newt simply doesn’t make. He wonders what Percival will make of it, and even in the warmth of the cafe a little chill goes through him at the thought of what he might say. 

Still, Newt is not one to worry, at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’ll take his own advice, and if a trip outside of New York’s bounds isn’t something that tempts Percival, well, he’ll deal with that when they get to it. And if he agrees, if he guesses what that simple hat really represents, then Newt thinks he can see a future with this man at his side, wherever that may take them. For now this will only be a small overture, just a little trip with him to somewhere relatively safe for those unaccustomed to tropical climes. However, should it turn out to be agreeable to them both, well, who knows where they’ll go from there?

Newt sits and sips his American tea and listens to Percival talk animatedly about the foolishness of bureaucracy and thinks to himself that maybe this holiday is going to turn out to be something really special. For the first time in years he realises that he’s actually looking forward to Christmas, and the realisation fills him with warmth and a thrill of contentment he hasn’t felt in far too long. 

Afterwards, Percival takes his arm in his and once more they stroll down the Avenue, letting the bustling Christmas crowds flow around them, despite all the people somehow alone in a world all of their own. Percival with the silver cane he’s taken to using, and Newt with his parcels hung from his free arm, full of gifts and the first hopeful hint of a future yet to come.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: Flying home to meet the family.


	2. 21st Dec - Flying Home For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying home for Christmas, Percival needs to fit in just one more suit and Newt's in charge of the travel arrangements. Nothing can go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to say that I don't have to travel this year, but for those who do I hope it's a smooth ride!

It’s a last minute thing really, so in a way Percival only has himself to blame. At forty-seven he’s a little old to be taken back to “meet the parents” - he’s an established wizard of an old and honoured house and quite frankly he’d thought himself long past the days of wearing his smartest robes to face down the house matriarch, or putting on his most polite and respectful voice to charm the associated patriarch. Long past, _long past_. And yet, here he is examining his suits and trying to work out which one will have the desired effect of “No, I’m not insane, nor am I a traitor to the Wizarding World, and neither am I bankrupt (either morally or fiscally) thus I am in no way seeking after your fortunes, only your son. Who is entirely safe with me. Please trust me.”

Maybe he should take both the good ones. And the lounge suit, and the slightly less formal one with the blue piping, and the firewhisky. Yes, yes the firewhisky is most definitely getting packed.

“Percival, I’ve spoken to Jonty, and he says- oh, are you taking that one? I don’t think we’ll be going anywhere particularly formal, just Christmas dinner with the family. It’ll just be mum and dad, and Theseus and Leta, I don’t think anyone else has even been invited.”

Percival turns, the suit still hung over his arm to regard Newt. He’s hanging on the door jamb looking at Percival’s chosen suit with such an expression of uncertainty that it makes Graves want to throw up his hands in despair. Newt really honestly doesn’t seem to understand how important first impressions are, especially when the people in question are potential in-laws who last saw his face splashed across the covers of every major wizarding newspaper accompanied variously by the words “GRINDELWALD,” “TRAITOR?” and “FAILURE TO ACT!” as well as many other similar choice and relentlessly incriminating phrases.

“Newt,” he says calmly. “I’d rather make sure I have something...comfortable.” To face down your parents. “Now, who’s Jonty?”

“Oh!” Newt brightens immediately. “Jonty’s an old friend of mine. He’s agreed that we can travel with him and Theodora in a day or two. The timing’s perfect, they’ll be stopping off in Wales on their way over to Romania, and I can get him to drop us off by my parents’ house beforehand so we won’t even have to catch the train.”

“Right,” says Percival, turning his attention back to his suit and hanging it carefully back on its hook. Yes, this one and the one with the blue piping. That way he’ll have all occasions covered. This one can be both formal and dressed down with the appropriate vest, and it’s entirely unlikely they’re going to be going to any white tie events over the holidays. He frowns, unless of course they _are._ Maybe he should think about taking the formal ballroom suit too, just on the off-chance the Scamanders have invitations to any no-maj events.

“I’ll tell Jonty we’ll be ready to meet them on Saturday, shall I? We’ll have to make it as early in the evening as we can, for obvious reasons, and I’ll need to get a present for him and Theo, though she’s really quite easy. A slap-up meal and she’s quite happy.”

Perhaps the burgundy and silver tie, Percival thinks to himself. And of course he’ll need robes, they still prefer the old styles in England, don’t they? He hangs the suit on its rack and pushes the suitcase to one side; he’ll need to make sure the expansion charms on that will hold, the last time he used it they’d felt like they were starting to fray. Newt is still watching him from the doorway and Percival wonders if he should send him away to make them both coffee - he can’t abide being watched while he sorts his wardrobe. It makes him feel bizarrely self-conscious.

“Make sure you pack your best flying cloak,” Newt offers. 

Percival casts a quick smile over his shoulder. He already has a nice comfortable one that will see them safe into the carriage and on their way. “Don’t you worry yourself, Mr Scamander. I’ll not embarrass you by turning up threadbare.”

Newt laughs, but there’s an edge to it, and Percival wonders what nerve he struck. 

“Well, just make sure it’s properly waterproof, won’t you?” Newt replies, and there’s a tiny note of pleading to his voice. 

“I will, mother,” Percival chuckles, shaking his head in baffled amusement. He turns back to his packing, his mind moving on to other concerns, such as what he’s going to talk about with complete strangers for the nine hour trip. “So, what’s in Romania?” he asks.

“Well it’s going to be their new home,” Newt says brightly. “They can’t stay over here, after all!”

Percival frowns at this, and then slowly turns to regard his partner. “Why on earth not?”

Newt blinks at him, and for just a second his expression is entirely unguarded. They regard one another in silence, Newt looking at Percival as though he’s gone quite mad, and Percival with the slowly awakening suspicion so innate to aurors everywhere. 

Eventually, Newt replies, “Well, I’m rather certain Romania’s the best option, Percival. I know you don’t see _many_ dragons over here, but I assure you, they do exist! Jonty can attest to that! I mean, he’s spent fifteen years extracting them all to reserves!”

Romania. Of course. Famous, amongst many other things for its specialist dragon reserve. Flying, slap-up meals, and meeting after dark, _for obvious reasons._ The suspicion that he’s going to need a waterproof cloak for more than just getting safely into someone’s private carriage begins to coalesce in Graves’ mind. 

Percival applies all his vaunted auror skills to his uncommonly good understanding of Newton Scamander, and asks, “Theodora’s a dragon, isn’t she?”

Newt looks at him with surprise. “Well, yes of course she is. Why else would they be flying to Romania?”

“Of course,” Percival says, voice as mild as milk tea. “Newt, I think I need to have a little word with you about this.”

  
  


*

  
  
In the end they don’t fly to England on dragonback. For his part Newt puts up a surprisingly vehement fight regarding the matter, enough that Percival suspects he’s more interested in meeting the dragon than he is his old friend Jonty. But Graves has to stand firm on this, on more than one front, although it does transpire that Jonty does, _surprisingly,_ have the relevant permits to both his and the dragon’s name. 

It turns out that Newt has a strange dislike of private Hippogriff-carriage hire, and had been confusingly disappointed when he found out that Percival does not in fact have his own personal carriage and stables tucked away in a corner of his townhouse. Really, Percival’s not entirely sure what to make of his attitude until Newt insists on inspecting the hire company in person (and it’s only Percival’s good standing with the firm and a few rather weak excuses about Magizoological interest he makes to them that gets Newt access to the stables). Apparently Newt’s mother breeds Hippogriffs, something that comes as both a complete surprise to Percival yet also somehow makes a certain amount of sense, and she’s instilled in her son a fierce suspicion of many of the private hire firms who “treat the beasts abominably and for absolutely no recompense whatsoever!”

Percival’s not sure what kind of recompense a Hippogriff might desire but he knows better than to risk raising Newt’s ire on the subject. They fly out from New York at 6am on Saturday the 21st of December with a nine hour flight ahead of them, and Newt still just a little bit annoyed about the whole matter. 

“You know,” says Percival, when they’ve left the coast far behind and nothing but the vast glittering ocean stretches out below them. “There are advantages to travelling by private carriage.”

Newt, one shoulder pressed up against the window as he looks out at the vista below, sniffs, and says, “Oh really?”

“Really,” Percival replies, “Particularly when I went to the trouble of making sure we’d be the only passengers.”

“Well, I hope that didn’t cost you too much, it would have been entirely free to go with-”

“Newt,” Percival murmurs, shaking his head. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

Stubbornly, Newt refuses to turn round, but Percival can see the curve of his lips in the reflection of the glass, and knows that the other man understands entirely where he’s leading them. They don’t really argue very much, despite their seemingly opposing views on the world at times, and that, quite honestly, is down to a healthy dose of selective hearing and innovative interpretation of certain bylaws on both sides.

In the spirit of the season and, because he does _somewhat_ understand the attraction of getting a good look at a beast as legendary as a dragon, Percival plays his ace and hopes that Newt will allow it. “Why don’t you let me show you, Mr Scamander…?” he asks.

Newt turns to look at him then, something amused and entirely wicked in his eyes, and Percival, smiling, reaches past him and draws the curtains closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: The 12 Beasts of Christmas


	3. 22nd Dec - 12 Beasts of Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival used to spend his Christmases alone; now he has a distinct menagerie sharing his home with him. Really, he doesn't mind.

There’s a song, a No-Maj song to be precise, and it goes something like “On the first day of Christmas…” and from there it meanders off into repetition and No-Maj symbology Percival doesn’t really understand, but it does seem to end in the type of wild menagerie most suited to a circus, which is pertinent because it’s precisely the feeling he gets when he looks at his kitchen.

Newt is sitting in a kitchen chair, carefully reasoning with a pouting Niffler who has what’s called a ‘silver ha’penny’ clutched tightly between its claws. This ha’penny is apparently destined for a pudding of some sort, although Percival’s a little hazy on the details about that. There’s a second Niffler, bright orange and maybe half the size of the other one, trapped carefully underneath an upturned brandy snifter that he’d frankly prefer contained something with a little more liquid potency. And then there’s the four Bowtruckles using Newt as their very own pear tree, to say nothing of the glaringly pink Fwooper sitting on the back of his chair, and the three Mooncalves that are gathered around their master’s feet staring adoringly and slightly disconcertingly up at him.

A  _ menagerie _ if you will. Really, all Percival had agreed to was allowing the Fwooper to come up and enjoy the warmth of the kitchen. Then  _ of course _ the Nifflers had escaped, because that’s almost a tradition unto itself these days, and the Bowtruckles had come up when Newt had gone back down to put the three Nifflers he  _ had _ caught back in their pen, and as for the Mooncalves, well, Percival had simply turned around and  _ there they were. _ He doesn’t think they can apparate but honestly at this point he’d be quite content to believe it. 

He stands and stares at the scene for a moment longer, knowing better than to disturb Newt when he’s 'reasoning' with one of his creatures, and then sighs and turns away. Despite Percival’s complete lack of a house elf staff, and his customary lack of participation in the festive season beyond seasonal drinks with Seraphina and a few others, he and Newt have decided to make something of a go of their second Christmas together. Their first had passed by in a haze of restaurants and family get-togethers, but this year it’s just the two of them. Well, the two of them and whatever the current contents of Newt’s case are that is. 

Despite this, there’s already a wonderful smell of baking filling the lower floor of his townhouse, because as it turns out Percival isn’t such a terrible cook after all and Newt’s a rather proficient baker of cakes and biscuits and the like. In some ways it comes from the both of them having supported themselves alone in their various fields for so long and as far as Percival is concerned if he’s going to be eating food he’s damned well going to be enjoying it. 

It’s not only food either, Percival has just returned from the living room upstairs, having put the finishing touches on their decorations. Great wreathes of holly and fir boughs and ribbons, all glittering with candles and encrusted with icicles carefully enchanted not to melt all over the carpets as soon as the fires are lit. They’ve put the tree upstairs too in an attempt to make use of more than just the small downstairs sitting room they normally favour between them. The townhouse remains far too vast for the both of them to really fill, but with Percival's sister out in the country with her family, someone has to keep the Graves family’s New York base running, even if more than half of it is carefully closed up.

Reaching for the bottle of wine left out to breathe on the side, he steps over the Kneazle that’s suddenly manifested beneath his feet, its intelligent feline eyes looking hopefully upwards at him. “A moment,” he tells it, then turns back to Newt and his collection of wildlife. “I’m taking this into the sitting room to be by the fire for a while. I’ll, ah, leave you to it.”

Newt glances up briefly, fingers still wrestling for purchase on the ha’penny. The brandy snifter on the kitchen table gives an ominous thud as the beast beneath it headbutts the side of its crystal prison. “Oh right, certainly. I’ll just be a  _ minute _ here, and then I’ll be through.”

It won’t be a minute. It might be an hour, knowing Newt and his ability to get sidetracked, but however long it takes him Percival knows he’ll find his way through in the end. He smiles just a little as Newt returns to his wrestling, and wonders how he ever felt anything but alone in the days before they met. His eyes pass over the beasts that now also share his life: four Bowtruckles, three Mooncalves, two Nifflers, and a Fwooper. It’s not all of them, not by a long shot, but it’s certainly coming up to the best part of a song. As he turns to make his way towards the sitting room, the Kneazle padding along at his heels, he thinks to himself, what had it been? Five gold rings? Yes, that’s right. He wonders suddenly, almost surprising himself with the ease by which the thought occurs, if Newt would be satisfied with just the one.

He considers this over his half of the wine, the Kneazle curled up on his lap, the fire warming them both. In the kitchen he can hear the whistling of the Mooncalves and the clatter of their hooves on the flagstones as Newt herds them back down into his case. The fire crackles and shifts and for just a second Percival thinks it  _ blinks _ at him. Squinting, he leans in and then with a sigh leans back in his chair. Really, he should be used to this by now.

In the fire the Salamander blinks at him again, then curls itself around a glowing ember and goes back to sleep. Later, when Newt joins them, he’ll mention it to him, but until then Percival sits back in his comfortable armchair and listens to the sounds of his household making its cheerful way towards Christmas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do somewhat want a pet Mooncalf.
> 
> Tomorrow: Ice-skating.


	4. 23rd Dec - Ice Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ice skating isn't really Percival's forte, but apparently it is Newt's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did mention some extra ficlets for The Nature of the Beast-verse. I've decided to tag them onto the end of the main fic, so you can find today's [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477391/chapters/52317547), wherein it's Annual Winter Photograph time for the Aurors at MACUSA.

“Oh, of course! I’d forgotten it gets cold enough here for this! Do you want to have a go?”

Newt turns to him with an expression of such enthusiastic anticipation that Percival is simply unable to risk dampening it. Instead he gives a shrug, along with what he hopes is a smile optimistic enough to pass muster, and replies, “Why not?”

It’s not so much that Percival Graves is a  _ bad  _ ice skater, just that it’s not really a sport he’s ever found particularly enjoyable. Too much potential for disaster, particularly when the local press have made it their number one priority to stalk him over the years. To go over on his ass in front of not only the general public, but to have it gleefully recorded for splashing across the front of the next day’s Ghost for good measure - no. Nor would Piquery ever let him live it down were he to fall victim to that particular screw-up. And so it’s with some trepidation that he allows Newt to transfigure their boots into respectable skates, with a level of skill that makes Percival’s heart sink. Quite clearly this is not the first time Newt has had cause to cast that spell, because “boots to good quality skating blades” is not the kind of transfiguration spell the average wizard can pull off.

“Oh yes,” Newt says cheerfully when Percival mentions the fact. “Thes’ and I used to go skating on the lake at Hogwarts every year. It was one of the few things we did together actually, people used to be really quite jealous of us.”

“Jealous?”

“Oh yes, we’d win the pairs skating every year. I mean, it was only informal, but that was best because then you could pair up with whoever you liked, and it didn’t have to be girl-boy or the like. You just got on with it, you see? Didn’t win a trophy or anything of course, but you know, sometimes it’s the glory!”

Percival stares at Newt as though he’s suddenly transformed into an Erumpent right before his eyes. “The glory…” he repeats. Glory-seeking is most definitely not something he would associate with the younger Scamander, but the grin Newt gives him, accompanied by the somewhat fervent glint in his eye, tells Graves that maybe, just maybe, he’s underestimated certain aspects of Newt’s personality.

To Percival’s relief, Conservatory Water, the frozen pond to the south of Central Park that had caught Newt’s attention, isn’t as full of people as he’s seen it in previous years. Standing at the edge of the ice he regards the rest of the skaters, thinking that there’s enough space to give a slow skater such as himself room to feel safe, but enough people to become lost in the general crowd. Newt has already pushed off the side to test his boots, and Percival watches him sweep elegantly away with a growing sense of unease. The man really  _ can  _ skate. Well, all right then. He won’t allow himself to be shown up!

“Good ice at the moment,” Newt says as he cuts to a neat halt next to Percival. “Not that many people have been out yet, we’re lucky. How are you doing there, are your blades okay?”

“Absolutely fine,” Percival says resolutely. “Shall we?”

He thinks, as they make their way out to join the stream of people skating the circuit, that Newt is going easy on him. Percival  _ is _ a respectable skater, at least he doesn’t wobble like a newborn Mooncalf or have to grab for Newt’s arm to steady himself as they move out to join the crowd. He can set a quite reasonable pace, albeit one that’s on the slower, more  _ stately  _ side, but at least he doesn’t end up on his ass as he sees several people do, both amateurs and show-offs. Newt glides happily along at his side, hands clasped behind his back, and together they make a few smooth circuits around the pond, enjoying the antics of the more adventurous, younger skaters, and admiring the snow-laden trees that surround them.

It’s a perfect winter day, and somewhere further into the park a small brass band is playing a selection of festive songs, some he recognises and some he doesn’t. At one point Newt skates off to join the stream of faster, more experienced skaters flying along on their own swift and sure circuit around the ice, leaving Percival to skate along with the rest of the crowd. He doesn’t mind, taking the opportunity to enjoy the atmosphere and, whenever he comes past, the sight of his boyfriend’s elegant form gliding by. He appears to make at least five circuits for every one of Percival’s, and it quickly becomes apparent to Graves that he’d not stand a snowball’s chance in hell of challenging Newt’s skill here. The thought of that makes him smile - really there are so many things he’s yet to find out about Newt. 

Eventually Newt returns, and with care not to overbalance him, slips his arm through Percival’s to skate at his side. It takes them a minute or two to strike up the right balance between them but finally they glide along together in harmony, enough that Percival allows Newt to draw him out into the faster stream of skaters until they’re whizzing along with the rest of them, Newt keeping them both out of trouble. 

Finally, ears burning with the cold despite their exertions, Newt pulls them to a safe halt in the very centre of the ice, as the rest of the skaters fly by on all sides. “See?” he says. “I knew you’d like it, it’s the speed, it makes you feel alive!”

Percival laughs in agreement, as pleased by the merry laughter in Newt’s eyes and the flush to his cheeks as with the exhilaration of skating. When Newt leans in he presses a quick kiss to his lips that makes Newt’s blush deepen and his eyes shine with happiness. Then he pulls him in close enough to bump noses. “Well I don’t know about you, Mr Scamander,” Percival drawls. “But I could really murder a mug of that spiced wine they’re selling at the pavilion.”

Together they make their way off the ice, and with a subtle transfiguration of their skates back to boots, make their way arm in arm off to warm themselves with spiced wine and roasted chestnuts.

The next day when Percival sits down to breakfast and the owl brings the post, he almost chokes on his toast when he unrolls the morning newspaper. There across a good quarter section of its front page, The Ghost has the headline “CHRISTMAS ROMANCE! MACUSA’s Director Spotted Sharing A Heartwarming Kiss With English Beau!” beneath which is a beautifully framed photograph of himself and Newt leaning in to kiss on the ice. 

It’s not thirty minutes before the next owl arrives with a stack of letters, and one addressed in Seraphina’s hand that can be nothing but a Howler. Though whether it’ll be a howling of anger or laughter even Percival can’t say. Wisely, he retreats to his private office to open  _ that _ one, closing the door most firmly behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: Christmas parties, and the escaping thereof, for those who like their animagi.


	5. 24th Dec - Silent Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MACUSA throws a Christmas Eve ball, and Newt couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be less. Luckily for him Percival is ready to rescue him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who love their animagus!Percival. Like me. I love jaguar Percy.
> 
> If you're looking for the second of the NotB-verse Christmas fics, that's [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477391/chapters/52365529). A Christmas Eve party of a far more pleasant kind.

The annual MACUSA Christmas Eve Ball is as fancy an affair as Newt had been warned it would be. Standing in the corner, a glass of sherry in hand, pulling uncomfortably at his neck tie he waits for the evening to end. As a consultant to MACUSA’s major crimes department, and, more importantly, a partner to MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, his attendance at the ball had been compulsory. The first bit is common knowledge, the second? Well, not so much. 

The ballroom is brightly lit with crystal and glowing gold chasing, and full of the bustle and chatter of beautiful people. Newt watches finely dressed witches and wizards sweep past in elegant dances that make him wince at the very thought of participating. The glitter of jewellery and betitled people is all over, and not for the first time Newt wonders what in Merlin’s name he’s doing here. Percival doesn’t need him to attend, and the aurors he can loosely call friends are all on duty tonight, stationed at points around the ballroom in a not terribly subtle display of MACUSA’s power. No Dark Wizards will be making an example of this ballroom tonight.

Across the room he can see Seraphina Picquery holding court with her hangers-on, a group of influential people and those who  _ want  _ to be influential, and at her side, smiling and watchful and dangerous is Percival Graves. Newt lets his eyes rest on him the longest, watching him work the crowd, as much a part of Seraphina’s act as the glittering gold ballgown she wears. All the power, all the influence. Newt shakes his head and sips his sherry.

He didn’t come all the way out here to America to stand around in ballrooms and watch the elite play their games. The chance to rehabilitate a few beasts and work with the local press to perhaps educate the wider magical population had been his aim, but now here he is, caught as surely as a Plimpy in a Mermaid’s net. Over by the fireplace, Newt’s captor looks up, catches his eye, and smiles. Burying his face in his glass of sherry to hide his blush, Newt flicks his eyes towards the great golden clock on the wall and raises his eyebrows. With just the smallest inclination of his head Percival Graves acknowledges the gesture and then turns away. 

That’s quite enough for Newt, and as soon as the clock strikes midnight, he sets down his glass and makes his way away from the ballroom’s bright lights and out into the anterooms to lose himself in the corridors beyond. 

*

It’s a cold night wind that winds its way around the observatory of the Woolworth Building. The air is so chilly up here that it almost steals away the breath, and Newt pulls his coat more tightly around himself, glad of the heating charms in its folds. It’s nearly eight hundred feet to the ground below, or so he’d read in a guide book he’d purchased months back, and now he leans out over the balcony of the observatory to stare down at the city below with a wizard’s complete disregard for heights. 

“Bored?” a voice asks, and Newt smiles into the wind.

He turns, and leaning beneath the arched doorway of the observatory’s single exit, Percival Graves gives him a crooked smile and raises one eyebrow. In the moonlight he looks handsome and just as dangerous as all the rumours say he is.

“Good evening, Mr Graves,” Newt says politely. “I thought you had a ball to be at.”

“Ah,” Percival says, pushing away from the stone to walk slowly towards him. “The clock struck midnight and all the beautiful people turned back to rats. I had to leave or else my instincts might have taken over.”

Newt laughs softly, and when Percival reaches him to cup a hand around his cheek, Newt leans into his kiss and lets the heat of it drive away the remainder of the night’s chill. Bodies pressed close together they linger in the kiss until Newt draws back, stepping playfully away to look out over the city. 

“You promised,” Newt reminds his companion.

“So I did,” Percival replies, moving up to stand at his side. “Where would you like to start?”

“You choose.”

And so he does. With a flicker of magic Percival takes them out across the city, to land in a hidden alley, Newt on two feet, Percival on four, a wizard and a lithe black jaguar whose paws know all the most secret routes. He leads his companion on through the midnight city, past the hidden churches where the congregations spill out from midnight mass, past streets where the darkened windows burn with the light of menorah, and through little squares where strings of lights brighten the shadows. The night is quiet around them, the sidewalks frosted with snow and ice, so that Newt must step carefully and Percival must use his claws to keep to his steady pace. Together they ghost through the winter night, in search of the hidden beauty of the season, moving from populated thoroughfares and on through the parts of the city that only they can reach. 

New York is a city of shadows and hidden light, and they walk until they come to Central Park, where the trees are heavy with snow and their footsteps crunch beneath them. Percival is a dark shadow against the ground, and for a while they chase each other through the snow drifts, until they reach the lake, where they glide together across the ice. By the time they take once more to the rooftops, both of them have feet near frozen with the cold. Percival leads them up through the trees and then up again to the roof of an isolated building right in the center of the park, leaping as a jaguar and climbing with claws that will no doubt leave a mark, Newt following along in his wake with a whip-snap of apparition. 

They make a nest up on the flat roof of the No-Maj building lying dark and empty below them, Newt spreading a transfigured handkerchief out into a thick, warm blanket, and pulling from the depths of his pocket a bottle of wine and two glasses. Were Percival in his human form he might have raised an eyebrow over concealed expansion charms such as that, but he’s known Newt too well and too long now to be surprised. Instead he waits until Newt has seated himself comfortably, and then he curls his great jaguar animagus form around his back for warmth. 

_ Good enough?  _ he projects.

“Very good, Mr Graves,” Newt smiles in return. 

Together they sit beneath the silent night sky, watching the snow slowly spiral down, waiting to welcome in the coming Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: The weather outside is frightful.


	6. 25th Dec - The Weather Outside is Frightful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival pays a Christmas visit to Newt's Dorset-based Beast Sanctuary. 
> 
> *
> 
> "It's going to snow," Newt says. 
> 
> "It'll be fine," Percival replies.
> 
> Turns out Divination was never one of Percival's strong points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking back at the records it snowed to 8ft drifts in Dorset in ‘62-’63 so you’ll just have to take the timeline for this with a pinch of salt. Still, who knows what merry hell making the sanctuary an unplottable location plays with the local weather systems, hm?

Percival arrives in Dorset on the twenty-third of December in a whirl of carriage wheels and a swirl of his impressive black coat. Standing there in the snow at the edge of the paddocks as the carriage turns and trundles slowly away, he cuts a smart figure in his New York finery and Newt, dressed in tattered old shirt and trousers, can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He dries his hands off on a tea towel, throws on a jacket and goes out to meet him.

*

Previous years have taught MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security that when he visits Newton Scamander in his Dorset Sanctuary for Fantastic Beasts and Associated Creatures he should bring with him a stout pair of boots and a set of clothes that he doesn’t mind condemning to the fire once he’s done with them. 

What he’s most grateful for though are the thick heated gloves he’s wearing as the pair of them trudge through the snow up to the top paddocks to check the fences and secure the wards. As he holds a piece of broken fence slat in place for Newt to mend he looks up to the sky and says, “It’s too cold to snow now, surely?”

Newt glances from Percival’s worried face to the sky and then back again. “Perhaps,” he replies. “Why, do you have to get back so soon?”

For a moment there’s silence between them as they heave a second slat into place and hold it there while Newt secures it. Then, breathing heavily, Percival wipes at his forehead and replies, “Last minute meeting on Christmas Eve, you know how it is. I’ll call a carriage to the village, then fly to London. Take a Portkey to New York. Be back in time for dinner.”

Newt casts him an amused glance and says, “It’s going to snow, you know.”

“Well,” says Percival. “If you would insist on being off the Floo network...and with the no-fly zone for ten miles around this place, needs must.”

Newt laughs, “You city folk.”

They return to the farm house together, trudging long lines across the snowy fields, Percival regaling Newt with stories of arrogant bureaucrats and festive foolishness, and promising Newt that this time,  _ this time _ he’ll be home for Christmas.

*

Newt’s farmhouse has the most enormous bath tub, so big it’s a fair bet he’s cast an enlarging charm on it at some point. Percival certainly isn’t going to complain as he slips into the water with Newt, the air filled with the fragrant scent of soap and herbs, and made hazy by the steam. 

“I promise you,” he says, leaning forwards as Newt scrubs his back. “I’ll be back before ten pm.”

“It’s going to snow,” Newt warns him.

“It won’t be that bad,” Percival replies. “I’ll make it.”

“Will you now.”

“Yes, Mister Scamander, I most certainly will,” Percival promises him, then says nothing further coherent as Newt reaches forward and draws him back into his embrace, pressing his lips to the crook of his neck and allowing his hands leave to wander.

  
  


*

Percival is up almost before Newt is on Christmas Eve, which is a surprise even to him. Still, Newt’s in the kitchen chewing on toast and reading the owl post when he comes downstairs, already dressed in his office finery, ready for a day’s travel and work.

“It’s snowed,” Newt says, without looking up.

“It’ll be fine,” Percival replies, reaching for a piece of toast. “Now, I need to be off. I’ll be back before ten in the evening, darling.”

He leans forward, and Newt accepts a kiss, then sits back to watch as Percival opens the front door.

There’s a moment’s silence, then Percival remarks, “That’s a lot of snow.”

“It is.”

“Does it go all the way back?”

“It does.”

Slowly Percival closes the door, taking care not to disturb the snowdrift and cause all eight feet of it to tumble its way into the kitchen.

“Shall I put on some more toast?” Newt asks kindly. 

“That would be lovely,” Percival replies.

  
  


*

It’s been years since Newt had the no-fly zone enforced around his sanctuary, put in place to help prevent intrusions and also to reduce the likelihood of anyone with wings being able to get too far outside the wards before being brought back to safety. Even he will admit that it can be tiresome at times to not be able to race up along the fields on broomback to maintain the wards or view the herds, but for the safety of all it’s a small price to pay. Besides which he’s always been good at blind apparition and finding his way around even with disorientating charms in place is something he’s grown good at over the years. It does mean that his sanctuary’s somewhat off the beaten track and impossible to reach by broom or Floo. Still, he prefers it that way, no matter what a certain city wizard might say about having to take a carriage from the outskirts inwards.

The two of them spend Christmas day before the great fireplace in the sitting room, its merry flames lighting the room as they unwrap their gifts and feast on roast beef and Christmas cake. Afterwards they wile away the day listening to Newt’s radio, the most modern thing he has in the farmhouse, and then, when that fails to interest them further, they retreat to the delightful warmth of each other in kisses and caresses and more.

“There now,” Newt says afterwards, letting the heat of the fire compete with the warmth of his skin. “Was it really so bad to be trapped out here like this?”

Percival, flushed with wine and made lazy with pleasure opens one eye and reaches up to run his fingers through Newt’s hair. “You know it’s not, you scoundrel,” he says.

Grinning his victory, Newt allows himself to be drawn down into another kiss, while outside the snow continues to fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone celebrating, and happy holidays to you all! Here's to everyone having fun and especially to those just doing what they can to get through.


	7. 26th Dec - Holiday Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It surprises Newt just how many Muggle Christmas traditions Percival appears to know. Wandering the streets of post-Christmas Prague they take to listing as many as they can think of.

“Reindeer.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that. Seen it too, in decorations, oh! And on their newspapers,” Newt nods, folding his hands more snugly around his mug of spiced wine.

“They believe they can fly, you know,” Percival adds.

“What? Why-? I-, well I don’t know where that idea came from. I mean, why not Hippogriffs? At least they exist.”

Percival laughs and gives him a  _ look _ from beneath lowered brows, until Newt rolls his eyes and nods in defeat. “Yes, yes, all right. I know how to obliviate a Muggle, Mr Director.”

“Mr Director,” Percival scoffs. “Please don’t start with that.”

“Why not? I think it’s rather fitting. Never off-duty, even when you are. I mean, you  _ are _ off-duty right now, aren’t you? Or is this all a pretence to lead me on?”

“Stop that,” Percival chides him, giving his hip a gentle bump with his own, one that makes Newt give an exaggerated yelp and make a show of jumping away. It might have gone better for him had the cobbles not been quite so slippery with ice. As it is, Percival has to make a grab for his arm to keep him upright, and he almost loses the rest of the contents of his mug down his coat front.

“Oops, sorry. Thank you,” Newt says, shaking spilled wine off his glove.

“You can rely on me, Mr Scamander. We aurors are always on duty ready to save an innocent civilian.”

“Oh, stop that.”

With evening well faded into night, the two of them make their way carefully down through the narrow sloping streets of the city until the cobbles level out and the lights of the Charles Bridge come into view

“Let’s cross over,” Newt says. “I want to look in the shops in Old Town.”

Readily, Percival agrees, and the two of them stroll side-by-side across the ancient bridge, standing aside from time to time to watch the trams go rattling past. 

“Gingerbread houses,” Percival says solemnly. “And Christmas puddings,  _ with _ the ha’penny.”

“You  _ were  _ listening!” Newt exclaims.

“I know that one,” Percival agrees.

“Actually,” Newt replies, “You seem to know an awful lot about Muggle traditions. More than I’d imagined really. I mean, most people don’t really pay that much attention and, well, not to be rude but you are, ah, a little more ‘strict’ in the States than elsewhere.”

Percival appears to take this assessment in stride, simply shrugging as he replies with the smallest of smiles, “You’d be surprised what I know, Mr Scamander.”

They make their way through the winding streets of Old Town, Newt peering into the windows of the shops, Percival at his side, watching to see what catches the other man’s eye. It’s past Christmas now, and the time for gift giving is gone, at least traditional gift-giving, but there’s no harm in knowing what makes Newt smile. He keeps a mental list of the things that Newt lingers over, and notes with some interest that he has a healthy fascination with all things that glitter.

“Niffler,” Percival murmurs fondly, but not loudly enough for Newt to hear him. Even four months into a relationship with the man he’s not yet fully explored all of his sometimes strange and unlikely tastes, and to find him poring with interest over something as mundane as a display of men’s pocket watches is somehow surprising. 

Prague had been a last-minute agreement between the two of them. Still fresh to their version of courting they each remain uncertain as to the exact boundaries of their new relationship. The idea of spending Christmas together had been most cautiously floated, neither of them quite willing yet to take the step of visiting either family with the other in tow, but each of them still burning up with that new relationship desire to spend every spare moment in the other’s company. Prague had been a compromise - interesting enough for both of them to view it as a pleasant sight-seeing trip in its own right, and far enough out of their usual territories that neither of them, even Percival, are likely to be recognised on the street unless they’re supremely unlucky. Wandering magical New York arm-in-arm had been absolutely out of the question, and likewise London. 

Percival watches Newt’s face as the glow of the store’s window display paints his skin a freckled golden, making his green eyes pale in its reflected light. He’s pretty, pretty and interesting, and the expression of intense fascination on his face makes Percival want to reach out put his hand under his chin, to lift his head up and kiss him. To take him back to one of their hotel rooms and indeed do much more than just kiss him. Now  _ there’s _ a thought that’s more warming than even the spiced wine. 

With some effort, Graves pulls his thoughts back out of the gutter. “What other No-Maj traditions do you know then, Mr Scamander?”

Newt straightens and looks thoughtful. “Christmas  _ cake _ , plenty of marzipan. Uhm, gifts on Christmas day, or Christmas eve, depending where you are. St Nicholas…”

Percival takes a moment to look up and down the street they’re in. It’s a narrow, winding side-alley, barely big enough to allow a carriage to pass down, and right now there’s no-one but them in sight. “Do you know the one about the mistletoe?”

Newt looks briefly confused. “Uhm, I know it’s good in healing potions?”

“What about this?” Percival asks, and steps close, right inside Newt’s personal space. Before the other man can back up he slips his fingers beneath his chin and tilts his mouth down so that he can lean in and kiss him. Newt makes a startled sound, unaccustomed to such displays in public, but Percival keeps the kiss light and brief, pulling away before anyone can stumble upon them. Still, Newt looks around hurriedly, even as Percival smirks in amusement. “Do you know that one?”

“I-” Newt says, then narrows his eyes at him. “Mr Graves,  _ really. _ ”

Despite his words there’s laughter in his eyes, an exhilarated thrill of being caught doing something that will most certainly cause upset were the local No-Majs to stumble on them. 

“Not familiar with that tradition?” Percival asks innocently.

Newt’s mouth twitches in a poorly concealed smile. “I don’t see any mistletoe here, Percival.”

“Hm,” Percival hums. “Well. I do believe I have some back in my hotel room, if you’d ah, prefer a more detailed demonstration - with all the associated props.”

He dips his chin and looks up at Newt most seriously, until the other man’s stern expression cracks into a smile. 

“Yes, you know, I do rather think a private demonstration might be in order,” Newt replies. 

“To be sure of the details.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Right then,” Percival agrees, reaching out to take Newt by the arm. “If you’ll allow me, Mr Scamander…”

Together they make their way back through the winding streets of Old Town, across the bridge and back up the hill, and if either of them are hurrying more than perhaps is sensible owing to the icy conditions underfoot, then they’re both willing to blame it on the bitter cold and the promise of warmth so soon to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realise that the [flying reindeer are such a recent addition.](http://www.altogetherchristmas.com/traditions/reindeer.html) The things you learn while researching details for fanfic. Anyway. This is the last of the specifically _Christmasy_ ficlets, the rest are all based around this season but concentrate more on the weather and the general time of the year, if that makes sense. Or perhaps is welcome if you're completely done with hearing more about turkeys and Christmas get-togethers. 
> 
> I also changed the name of the fic to Festive rather than Christmas because it was annoying me, and now I want to start on the snow/New years themes.
> 
> Tomorrow: A modern AU of a kind.


	8. 27th Dec - The Modern Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt's in the field, Percival's at work and somewhere in the middle they have a relationship. [Modern day AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern day AU in that it's shifted, uh, ninety years into the future because smartphones add possibilities for fleshing out their relationship dynamics that Owls just don't.

_ Is it hard? _ people ask him sometimes.  _ With him being so important and all? _ And then they trail off because it occurs to them what they’ve just said might be construed as rude, but Newt has to admit that ‘Magizoologist’ or ‘Magical Wildlife Activist’ doesn’t sound quite so impressive as ‘Director of Magical Security for MACUSA.’ 

It’s fine though, really it is. Newt’s still not sure how you explain away the difference in status between the man second only to President Picquery and the magizoologist/author/frequently on the wrong side of the prison bars boyfriend he apparently keeps around for the hell of it. This is pertinent because because you don’t get voted in as Director of Magical Security, you get put in place by command of the President and this is one of those situations where she gets the say and everyone else gets to ask how fast she wants it done. Which is a bloody good job because Newt is well aware he stretches her patience damned thin,  _ damned thin,  _ Mr Scamander. 

But to answer the question of ‘Is it hard?’ the answer is yes, really quite hard sometimes. Of course, at times it’s nothing but endless days of summer out in Percival’s country house, or nights out in Broadway with drink and food and private parties and all the things only money the like of the Graves family fortune can buy. Things that Newt can absolutely live without but which, even he has to admit, hold a certain wild charm, particularly when plied on him by a man so eager to show him there’s a reason to keep on coming back to him. Graves is charming, powerful, influential and, despite what the press might occasionally attempt to say, a genuinely honourable man. With him Newt feels safe, he feels protected, even if sometimes he feels just a tiny bit smothered.

The hard parts come when they stop looking into one another’s eyes and getting lost in the simple fact of each other’s existence. When work for Newt takes him across another border, and out of contact for another two, three, sometimes four months. He tries, he really does, but what Percival doesn’t seem able to understand is that fieldwork means getting  _ outside _ the cities and far away from folk, magical or otherwise, because generally speaking magical beasts don’t  _ want  _ to co-exist with wizards or with Muggles. Percival seems to believe that everywhere on the planet should be reachable by Owl or these days by telephone. Here in the US, Newt, we make  _ use _ of the No-Maj technology, which historically speaking is a level of irony Newt really isn’t ready to confront him on. 

But he does have a phone now, which he keeps charged because actually it’s damned handy to be able to snap a quick photo in the field, even if it does mean that Percival gets on at him about using the doohickey, the thing, the, the,  _ whatever it’s called _ that makes the phone connect to the network even when he’s right out in the middle of the Outback. Percival Graves might be surprised to know that although Newt may not know the name of it he does actually know how to make it work, and it’s more to do with personal freedom than it is an inability to work out which icons to press that keeps Newt off the network so often.

That, and he simply forgets. 

The Wraith Crab migration and breeding season starts at the end of October, and lasts throughout November, but if Newt wants to be able to analyse the number of young that return from the sea afterwards he’s got to stay on another four weeks, which means cutting it fine when it comes to Christmas. He made a joke about it always being Christmas on Christmas Island where the crabs are, and Percival gave him a sad look that made him feel bad for the rest of the day. (He was layering it on somewhat, Newt  _ knows _ that, but still…) 

Which is to say that it gets to December the twenty-third and Newt looks up from his crab traps, checks his watch - the fancy one with all the “rugged travel features” that Percy got him last year, including the little number that notes the date in the top right - and says out loud to no-one in particular, “Oh,  _ bugger.” _

By the time he makes the doohickey work, it’s the next day, and it’s not that Newt’s bad with tech, but sometimes he really does think it would be easier to just send an Owl, and he’s just tying a letter to the leg of a currawong loaned to him by the witch in the local city, when his phone blips and a message comes in. He shades the screen from the light with the flat of his hand and realises it’s a text from Percival.

_ “Hello, Darling. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to attend an emergency summit in Switzerland. May be out of the country still when you get back. Starts on the 22nd, runs two days. Will let you know if it’s going to drag on. Message me when you get this please.” _

Newt checks the message details. Sent on the 20th. Hmm. So if it’s two days does that mean it’ll be over on the 23rd or the 24th? He’s never sure with these types of things, and Percival can be deliberately vague at times. He’s still thinking about this when the phone blips again and another message pops up.

_ “Going to be delayed until the 26th at the earliest. Sorry, Darling. I love you, and I’ll see you as soon as possible.” _

Well, that sorts that out then, Newt thinks to himself. For a long few minutes he sits beneath the propped up flap of his tent, just thinking about what it means to be a terrible boyfriend if neither of you are capable of doing the simple rituals that every other couple seem to take so for granted. Rescue one another from the sorcery of Dark Wizards, extract one another from foreign jails - well, one of them does that on occasion at any rate - but be there at Christmas ready with a turkey in the oven and a glass of wine in hand? Apparently that’s an achievement for other people.

“Well, I did warn you, love,” Newt says softly. “And you warned me.”

Perched on the back of the camp chair the currawong gives its lilting cry and flicks its wings impatiently. Newt strokes a finger down its head, then hesitates. “Just give me a second,” he says, and disappears back into the tent. When he returns he has to bribe the bird with nuts before she’ll allow him to tie the little extra parcel to her leg, but then she’s on her way, burden dangling below. 

Wraith Crab shells are useful in several potions, but owing to the capacity for their owners to turn invisible they’re very rarely found on the market. The lesser known use for their shells is of course as an anti-hexing amulet. Besides which the inner side of the shell is a beautiful swirl of blue and silver pearlescence that Newt thinks will make a fine pair of cufflinks for someone’s suit. Satisfied with this, he begins to dig out something for his supper, wondering what they’ll make of a currawong in Switzerland. 

Five days later he wakes up to find a rather hot-looking owl perched on the end of his camp bed. It’s a large bird and it looks like it’s come a long way to bring him the package hanging from its claws. Quickly, Newt cuts the parcel loose and unwraps it. Inside there’s a small box and a message written in Percival’s fluid hand.

_ Decided this would be more use to you than a cuckoo clock.  _

_ Happy Christmas, Darling. Sorry I couldn’t be there. See you in the new year. xx _

_ (Also, charge your damned phone!) _

Newt turns the Swiss army knife over in his fingers, and smiles. They may not be able to tick all the social boxes that other couples do, but between them they have their own way of dealing with life. Tucking the knife into his pocket he pays the owl and sends it on its way, then goes out to begin packing up his camp, ready for the trip home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A currawong.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3JxnPA6VmsI)
> 
> Tomorrow: Blizzard Conditions


	9. 28th Dec - Unexpected Mishaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught in an unexpected snowstorm, Newt and Percival almost don't make it out alive.

Afterwards neither of them will be able to say what caused the accident. Percival has no explanation and Newt oscillates between an unlucky run-in with a freak air current, or perhaps even a random hail stone. In the midst of the driving snow it’s completely impossible to tell. The Hippogriff, Suka, goes down in an impressive whirl of feathers, claws and snapping beak, disappearing down into the darkness with a sharp shriek, and Newt, startled almost into inaction is saved from losing sight of the pair of them only by the experienced Hippogriff that he’s riding. Mikhail, all black feathers and gleaming golden eyes, dives after his sister as soon as she falls, and Newt, clinging to his neck strains his eyes to keep track of the fate of both beast and rider.

He finds Percival face-down in a snowdrift, his Hippogriff standing over him, one wing trailing awkwardly, the other raised against the storm. They’re trained to stay by a downed rider these beasts, and bless her, she’s doing her best even against the ferocity of a Siberian snow storm. Already the wind is whipping snow around so fast that were it not for the numbness in his cheeks it would feel as though it were stripping his skin. Visibility has plummeted in the space of a half breath and he staggers, reaching out for Mikhail’s solid shoulder as the wind pummels into his side.

 _Calm, calm, calm,_ Newt repeats to himself as he pulls Percival out of the snow and examines him frantically for injuries. It seems he’d managed to break his fall via apparition but such a feat when everything is white both up and down and the world is already spinning 360 is an almost impossible task to pull off. He’d gotten it partially right regardless, enough to stop himself breaking his neck at least. 

_Just unconscious_ , Newt finds to his relief. A bang on the head that Newt immediately begins to patch up, and awake enough already to near choke on the healing potion Newt forces down his throat, then they’re staggering together in search of somewhere more sheltered from the storm. 

It hadn’t been as foolish as it might seem to have pushed on for as long as they had. The snow storm had come up out of nowhere, unpredictable in this region so close to the mountains, and with both of them seasoned fliers and their mounts experienced and local to the region, pressing on for a few miles, enough to make the village, should not have been a problem. This twist of bad luck is just that, and it may well be the undoing of them all.

It takes Newt only a few minutes to realise that they’re going to do themselves no good staggering around blind as they are, Suka’s wing needs tending and he needs to keep Percival warm enough to allow the healing potion to do its work. In the short time it’s taken him to find the downed pair and get Percival back on his feet the storm has already increased in both tempo and ferocity. In the end it makes the decision an easy one.

The best way to survive a snow storm, even in the unlikely event you could fly high enough to get above it, is to seek shelter on the ground. Of the many and varied things Newt had been taught in his brief time in the corps was what to do in bad weather, and now he puts into action all the things he remembers from training. He has Mikhail lie down, pushing Percival to shelter beneath the beast’s raised wing, and then he turns Suka and pulls her alongside so that her wounded wing is between her and her brother. In an incredible turn of luck her wing feels merely bruised, and this he takes care of with a quick few spells. Then, pulling out a tarp from their travel bags he slings it over the Hippogriffs’ arched wings and crawls beneath to join Percival.

The air is bitingly cold and the scream of the storm is like some beast gone mad with anger. The Hippogriffs, magic burning in every sinew of their body, simply turn their heads in towards each other and lock their wings together to shelter the two wizards below. Even so it’s desperately, miserably cold, and if not for their repeated heating charms and the barrier spells Newt casts to keep the weight of the falling snow off that first day might have gone somewhat worse for them all. 

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to hit for another two days,” Percival says groggily, awake again after a few hours of the healing potion’s effects. He leans his head back against Newt’s chest and closes his eyes against the throbbing that seems to start in his head and resonate all the way down to his belly. 

“It can be unpredictable out here,” Newt replies apologetically. 

“Stop it.”  
  
“...stop what?” 

Percival sighs and shifts with a wince. “Apologising.”

Newt blinks. “I didn’t say anything!”

“No, but you were thinking it. Look, don’t. It happened, no need to dwell on it, I was just...I really did think we’d get away with it. Get back to the village before it really hit, I mean.”

“Never mind,” Newt replies softly, after a moment. He brushes the palm of his hand against Percival’s forehead and finds it cool. “How’s your head?”

“Throbbing,” Percival replies with a grunt. “But that’s just the potion kicking in.”

“Feel sick?”

“No.”

“Faint?”

“No. Bored, pissed off, and honestly quite lucky to be alive, but nothing more than that.”

Newt smiles wryly. “I have to check.”

“I know.”

They lie together in the pale light of Newt’s wand, stuck upright in the snow by their feet. Their little snow cocoon, kept in place by magic and the bodies of the two Hippogriffs has begun to warm nicely, enough that if they’re not careful they’re going to end up with melted snow beneath them. The two beasts are breathing a slow, steady rhythm, content to sleep their way through the rest of the storm, and as well as their heat they’re lending the den a somewhat pungent aroma of beast. Still, it’s not one either wizard can really complain about - after all, were it not for the Hippogriffs it’s quite possible things would have gone a whole lot worse for them.

“I bet you didn’t think your first field trip was going to end up like this,” Newt says wryly. 

“Oh yes,” Percival murmurs. “Spirit of adventure, that’ll teach me to spout such absolute bullshit. Remind me next time I start looking misty-eyed about joining you on your travels, remind me of this exact moment and don’t forget to mention every note of the Hippogriff piss and sweat bouquet in the air.”

Newt snorts laughter and Mikail opens one great golden eye to glare at them both. “Be careful, Percival. If not for Mikhail you’d be a goner right now, don’t be so ungrateful! And he doesn’t smell of piss, he smells of dander and harness oil, it’s completely different.” 

“You’re right,” Percival sighs. “Sorry, big guy. I owe you a brace of hares when we get back to the village. And your sister too. Six each, how does that sound?”

With a sigh the Hippogriff closes his eye and goes back to sleep.

It takes nearly three days for the storm to pass. Three very uncomfortable and boring days of living within the embrace of two sleeping Hippogriffs. They pass the time sleeping and telling stories and finally playing cards, at which Percival swears Newt is somehow using the Hippogriffs to cheat. He can’t prove it but he doesn’t win a single hand so _something_ is clearly going on.

On the afternoon of the third day with the storm gone silent around them they finally dig themselves out of the snow drift, startled to discover just how deeply around them it has built up, and emerge into blazingly cold sunshine and blue, innocent skies.

“You’d never even know,” Percival shakes his head, looking around at the pristine landscape and the towering mountains in the distance. “I mean, look at it. You recognise where we are? Three more miles and we’d have been home.”

Behind them the Hippogriffs leap and kick up their heels, rearing up to stretch out their wings and send the snow whirling around them. 

“Ah,” says Newt. “Uhm. Percy?”

At Percival’s expectant look, Newt winces and says, “Sorry I brought you here like this. I did mean for us to be back home three days ago. I mean, back in London anyway.”

Percival snorts. “Portkey’s probably already lost its charm, we’re going to have to take the long route back. Go via Saint Petersburg, there’s an embassy there with one I can commandeer.”

Newt looks shifty and awkward, turning away to watch the Hippogriffs leaping life back into their limbs. 

“What?” Percival asks.

It takes Newt a moment to reply, then he shrugs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“I told you to stop apologising. What happens, happens.”

Newt winces and looks sideways at him for a long time. “We missed Christmas,” he says finally.

Percival blinks and Suka comes over to nibble at his shoulder, pushing at him with her beak. He turns and scratches her forehead, then looks back to Newt. With a shrug, he says, “Well, we still spent it together, didn’t we?”

Newt blinks, then a slow smile makes its way across his features. He shakes his head and looks up at Percival from beneath the flop of his fringe and Percival realises that he’d expected him to be angry with him. _Newt,_ he thinks. _You still have such a lot of trust to learn._

“We’ll celebrate in our own time. Now, Mr Scamander, I don’t know about you, but I made a promise involving hares to these fine beasts, and I think if you stand between them and their reward any longer there may well be blood.”

Laughing, Newt reaches down to pack up what little remains of their impromptu camp, and minutes later they take to the skies, heading for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Newt would have had some contact with the Hippogriff corps in WWI - I mean, he would have been old enough, wouldn't he? If only barely.
> 
> Tomorrow: Newt, did you take the decorations down?


	10. 29th Dec - Taking down the decorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get drunk, have a great time, and....take down the decorations?

Newt is still sleeping when Percival slips silently out of bed and pads down the hall to have his morning shower. Washing the last night’s exertions away he lets the hot water wake him up and decides that he’ll surprise his slumbering partner with breakfast in bed. There’s bacon and eggs and bread for toast downstairs, and then, with a smirk he decides he’ll add a tiny slice of Christmas cake to the edge of the plate just to see the look on Newt’s face. He’d said something yesterday about having eaten his fill of the stuff for the next ten Christmases, but what can Percival do? People keep on gifting him the damned things as though as a batchelor all he needs is someone to bake him a good cake to sort his love life out. Well, now they all can stop worrying for him.

He dresses as quietly as he can, but Newt is still dead to the world and snoring lightly by the time he’s doing up his cuffs. Amused, Percival pauses in the doorway just briefly to listen to him, then, shaking his head fondly, makes his way downstairs.

It’s been an odd end to a bizarre and frankly terrible year. At least, the start of it had been. Even now Percival has to stop and catch his breath and his composure at the thought of what had gone on in the December of ‘26. He’d been found, rescued one might say, nearly two months later from his prison of suspended animation by one clever and rather smug magizoologist, and honestly it had been that tiny hint of cheeky self-satisfaction that had caught Percival’s attention so thoroughly. Despite his reputation, or perhaps because of it, he appreciates a little bit of disrespect. It’s...refreshing.

They’ve been working together for nine months, and sharing a bed for the last two, and it’s been good.  _ Very _ good. Newt makes him feel- Morgana’s tits has it really come to this? Yes it has. Newt makes him feel  _ young _ again. And damn it, he’s not old, but he’d thought himself beyond flings and the silliness of romance, and although hell, this is definitely not a fling, not if he has anything to say about it, but it  _ is _ romance. As he passes the library he takes a few minutes to refresh the fire and prep it ready to warm the room for them later, he has it in mind to have them spend the day up here for once. This accomplished he continues on his way downstairs until he reaches the living room, intending to lay out the fire to begin heating the rest of the house, and stops short.

For a long time he just stares in confusion, then walks slowly into the center of the room, looking around himself in bewilderment. To be entirely fair, they  _ had _ gotten somewhat tipsy last night. Well, in all honesty ‘tipsy’ is a rather forgiving term for it. The two wine bottles are still standing empty by the side of his armchair and the decanter of brandy is significantly less full than it had been at the start of yesterday evening, and- yes, the crystal stopper is gone. As are the cut glass snowflakes that had been hung from the fir boughs lining the room, and the glass icicles that had been hanging from the tree. So is every glittering bauble, trinket and toy that had hung from each branch. The tinsel is gone too.

There’s the sound of footsteps in the hall behind him, and a yawning Newt appears in the doorway. He gives Percival a devastatingly charming sleepy smile, his sleep-tousled hair making him look like he’s fresh out of his lover’s bed, which of course he  _ is- _ and then he draws up short at the expression on Percival’s face.

“Did you take the decorations down?” Percival asks him in confusion. 

Newt blinks, looks around the room in confusion, and then his expression freezes. “Ah,” he says.

In the nine months he’s come to know Newt  _ very well _ Percival has also come to know that expression. His eyes narrow. “...Newt?”

“Uhm,” Newt replies evasively. “I need to ah, to go, uhm. I need to go get my...er, my toothbrush. It’s in my case. Uhm. Got to- I’ll just-” he turns, and before Percival can say anything else is already running back up the stairs.

“Newt!” Percival calls after him, then stops. No.  _ No. _ Be calm. This isn’t the first time, it probably won’t be the last. Newt is a professional and he will have this entirely under control. It takes him a long minute of just standing there in the cold hallway convincing himself, then, with a very long sigh, he runs his hand through his still damp hair, and goes to put breakfast on for them both. 

He just hopes the silverware is still there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Otto, the disgusting vending machine, because the comment right at the very bottom of [this article](https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-dorset-50884462) about dogs eating Christmas decorations had me in stitches. 
> 
> Tomorrow: Turning Seasons.


	11. 30th Dec - Turning Seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seasons change: spring into summer into winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw [this](https://external-preview.redd.it/ZcoVuzCSwoXshogcdAPTNsOf0pNCo1FQ6cQ0pqW6A4c.jpg?auto=webp&s=4f7d144d8c6a8da96373ca1b675df140e4c9a0cf) and thought of this prompt immediately. If you want to go and stay there, it's [here, with many more photos.](https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rooms/17633413?adults=1&ref_device_id=a6afec6ecc32c8fb75777f942d37b18ce66f8f90&s=42&user_id=99874498&_set_bev_on_new_domain=1577460805_j0rLJKhnlqau%2FZG5&source_impression_id=p3_1577460808_V3SERKAOEf68dQ%2Fg)

The first time Newt takes Percival to his cabin retreat, it’s late spring. The forest is alive with birdsong and flush with green beneath the warmth of a pleasant midafternoon sun. When they arrive he’s surprised at the complexity of the structure, by the permanence of it - it’s only been two years since Newt started his work out here in Maine after all. As he stands at the base of the trees, looking up at the interconnecting circle of cabins and viewing platforms built high up their trunks, he marvels again at how skilled Newt can be when he sets his mind to something. 

“It’s...remarkable,” he says, turning a circle on his heels.

“Better from above,” Newt promises, and disapparates in a twist of air. 

They spend the best part of two months in Newt’s tiny treehouse fiefdom, spring into summer, living high above the ground and watching the beasts pass below. Originally Newt had been out this way to investigate the rumoured presence of a Hidebehind, but having proved conclusively it was nothing but a sick and malnourished bear, he’d moved on to studying the Jackalopes and the Jobberknolls. Percival has fond memories of sitting very still up on the viewing platforms with Newt beside him, the magizoologist engrossed in his work while Percival dozed in the warmth of the summer forest.

Now it’s winter and the snow is deep on the ground, the trees transformed around them to tall trunks of black and white. The forest is filled with the particular silence of ice and cold, broken only by the bad-tempered arguments of winter birds, and the intermittent slip and slide of snow falling from the branches. The two of them are sitting one either side of a glowing brazier of embers that’s giving off just enough heat to stop the platform around them from freezing. Nonetheless each of them is in thick winter cloaks and gloves, and buried beneath the heated blankets that Newt has dug out from a storage trunk. 

Just as in summer, Percival is drifting into a doze, warmed now by the soft weight of blankets rather than the heat of the summer sun, but just as comfortable for it. Out here is so peaceful, so far from the hue and cry of Congress or the bustle of the city. Despite the cold it’s cozy next to the warmth radiating from the brazier, and the gentle scratching of Newt’s quill is lulling him quickly into sleep. 

“Percival.” 

It’s not until Newt reaches over and gently squeezes his shoulder that Percival hears his name being spoken. He looks over to find Newt watching him, a finger pressed to his lips. Percival gives him a quizzical look and Newt smiles, then gestures for him to lean forwards slowly and look down into the clearing below.

The space beneath the viewing platform is usually some fifteen feet or more below them, but now the distance has been reduced several feet by the addition of the deep snow that’s fallen over the last few weeks. Normally the little clearing is full of spring grass and flowers, becoming a dinner table to the Jackalope packs that roam this area. Now it’s an unbroken sea of white, and when Percival leans forward he realises that as well as the reflected glow of the snow he can see lights below. They flicker and chase across the snow’s surface, pale, icy blue and white like moonlight, and as they pass across the snow they make a high, resonant sound like the chiming of tiny little bells, or the plink of raindrops on ice. 

For a long time he watches the pinpricks of light weave across the snow, leaving behind them little trails in the air of frost flakes and glittering ice crystals. They dodge and twist and sweep around in a slow, meandering circle, endlessly graceful and effortlessly fluid, beautiful and just a little eerie. 

“Ice elementals,” Newt whispers to him, slowly leaning close and whispering right into Percival’s ear, the warmth of his breath puffing against his cheek.

Side by side they lean on the railing of the platform and watch the little winter elementals dancing. Beneath where they pass the snow is decorated with the fractal patterns of new ice in swirls and spirals like frozen ferns. They watch them until the late afternoon darkens towards evening, and then they watch them dance another hour until, with no warning the creatures sweep up together in one great plume and shoot away between the trees and out of sight.

Percival leans back in his chair with a slow breath, steam pluming on the air, and beside him Newt closes his forgotten journal and turns to pass his wand over the dying embers of the brazier, turning it chill and safe to leave for the night.

“Thank you for coming out here with me,” Newt says suddenly. His voice is quiet and almost hesitant, as though he’s unsure of the reception his words might have. In the newly fallen darkness beneath the canopy Percival can only just make out his silhouette, a fractionally darker shadow against a backdrop of darkened forest.

It’s been three years of being together for them, and still, even now, he sometimes doubts both himself and Percival, or rather, his place with him. In the dark Percival is aware the other man cannot see his face, and he is glad of it, for his expression might make him turn away in embarrassment.

“You know I’ll always go with you, wherever that is,” he replies simply.

In the dark he thinks he hears Newt hold his breath. Then the other man laughs, short and perhaps a little tremulous. 

“Let’s go in and light the fire,” he says.

Percival reaches for him in the darkness, and finding his gloved hand, grips it tight.

“Let’s,” he replies.

They leave the cold embers and the dark forest behind them, and make their way carefully across the icy wooden footbridges between the branches, until they come to the main cabin. There they light the fire, set the kettle over its flames, and close the curtains on the cold and dark of the night, settling in together as the world outside continues the slow and inevitable turn back towards spring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: New Year Resolutions.


	12. 31st Dec - New Year Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year ends, and so does an era. Percival goes home, and Newt is waiting for him.

By the time Percival gets back Newt is already asleep. Feet propped up on the arm of the sofa, legs so long there’s no other way to fit himself lengthways, and there Percival had thought the thing extravagantly large when he’d purchased it. He stops in the doorway to the living room, cane in hand, slowly unwrapping his scarf with the other, and stares at the socked feet he can see hanging over the end of the sofa. The clock on the mantel tells him that it’s almost a half past eleven, nearly two hours past the very latest time he’d promised to be back.

For just a second he stands in silence and listens. Of course, if Newt had heard him come in then he’d have said something by now. Instead there’s nothing but the ticking of the clock, the muted snap of the fire, and the softest rasp of breath that must be Newt snoring. He’s had a slight cold for the last couple of days, too little to bother with a potion, but enough that Percival’s been on at him to cure it. After a moment Percival turns away and hangs up his coat and scarf, then makes his way down the hall to the kitchen, and as quietly as he can finds himself bread and meat and cheese, before returning via the drinks cabinet to the living room.

He finds the Kneazle curled up on Newt’s belly, Newt still sound asleep, stretched out on his back. There’s that ratty blanket he always uses covering his lap, though most of it is beneath the feline rather than keeping him warm. The Kneazle opens her eyes and slow-blinks at him, the only one of them that’s been here when they should be. Very briefly Percival considers the armchair on the other side of the fire, then discards the idea. Carefully, his leg complaining bitterly, he grabs a spare cushion, and then levers himself to the floor, putting his back to the sofa where Newt lies sleeping. He eats his dinner in silence, pouring himself a glass of brandy to go with it, feeding the smallest piece of ham over his shoulder to the Kneazle.

The day had been long, but there’d been so very much left to do. Offices to visit, documents to sign, projects to wrap up or hand over to new people, new teams. All the new faces he’s come to know over the last three years, all the ones he’s picked out and cultivated for the coming round of this very day. It had been hard, and at the same time strangely easy. Letting go has never been his strong point, but ever since Picquery had reinstated him three years ago this has always been the final destination. 

Percival stares into the flames of the fire and remembers how it had felt to leave the office today. Quiet, had been the overwhelming sensation. A little unreal too. Like stepping onto the bank of a river and watching as the water continued to flow, indifferent to anything not caught up in its embrace. They’ll carry on and Percival will finally be able to stop breaking promises.

Behind him Newt stirs, snuffles and then coughs. Percival feels him shift in surprise, then his hand comes down, the back of his curled fingers brushing down Percival’s cheek to rest on his shoulder.

“Did I fall asleep? When’d you get back? Have you- oh, sorry, I didn’t-”

“Shh,” Percival soothes him. “Not long. I let you sleep, you needed it.”

“Did you get dinner? I left out the last of the beef and some ham. And some of that cheese we got at the market, did you find it?”

“I found it,” Percival assures him, turning to rest his arm along the edge of the sofa. Newt reaches out and puts the flat of his palm to Percival’s cheek and Percival gauges the red flush of his skin in the firelight. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Newt says. “I’m fine really.”

“Mm,” Percival replies, unconvinced, then tilts his chin up to accept the kiss Newt places on his lips. He feels hot and Percival’s not sure if it’s fever or simply the warmth of the room. He doesn’t look febrile, but then Newt, rather like his beasts, is good at hiding things.

“Did you do it?” Newt asks him. 

Percival smiles, capturing Newt’s hand with his own and then turns it to kiss the top of his knuckles. “I did.”   
  
“Are you all right?”

Graves smiles at the question, at the look of concern in Newt’s eyes, and at the sweetness of him for thinking only of Percival’s happiness even if it might impact his own. “I think...it’s been a long time coming. I think it’s for the best, and I think we make ourselves a new life now.”

Outside there’s a sudden bang that ricochets out across the city like the crack of a cannon or the boom of a detonating spell. Percival glances towards the heavily curtained windows and then back at the clock.

“Happy new year,” he tells Newt, and watches as the other man blinks up at the clock in confusion. He’s still just a little bit out of it, and it shows in the slowness of his thoughts.

“Happy new year,” Newt replies, and then hesitates as Percival offers him a sip from his brandy. “All right, just a small one, to celebrate.”

“Help you sleep,” Percival promises him, then accepts the snifter back before draining it. For a second he watches Newt watching him, the concern still lingering in his eyes.

“It’s another month before I leave officially,” he tells him softly. “I handed in my formal resignation today, but...I think I won’t be needed back. Seraphina has...pulled strings. A quick cut, all done.”

“Clean,” Newt says.

“As it can be.”

“Are you happy?” Newt asks suddenly, and Percival sighs at the worry in his voice. Levering himself onto his knees, ignoring the pain in his leg, he leans in over the sofa and puts his hand on Newt’s cheek so that he can hold the other man’s gaze.

“I am,” he says simply. “It’s a new start, Newt. A good one. Things come to an end, things change. We all change with them, it’s life. I want this.”

Newt’s lips part and he blinks, then his expression softens. “If you’re sure.”

“Newton Scamander, I am  _ very _ sure. I swear to you.”

At Newt’s smile, Percival laughs softly. “Besides, Mr Scamander. You told me you were going to show me Africa and introduce me to that Nundu you released out there. You’re going to need someone to watch your back in case it gets overexcited and tries to lovingly eat you.”

Newt snorts laughter and leans back against the cushions. In the firelight his eyes gleam and his face is flushed with amusement. “Well I hope you have your proper documents all in order, Mr Graves. Don’t expect any sympathy from me if they detain you at the border!”

Graves smiles a wicked smile for him, the one he knows Newt likes best, and says, “I shall make it my new year’s resolution to have all my papers stamped and up to date, especially for you.”

“Do mine too while you’re at it?” Newt asks quickly.

Percival growls and prods him in the side making Newt grin and twitch, and the Kneazle complain. 

“Go back to sleep,” Percival tells him.

“What about you?” 

He hesitates before he replies, even as he pulls the tatty blanket further up Newt’s chest. It’s been a terribly long day, but it’s been a momentous one for him too. The end of a very long chapter of his life, a milestone passed and a door closed that will likely never be opened again. As Newt settles down Percival strokes his hair, pushing his unruly forelock back out of his eyes and pressing a palm to the other man’s forehead. The skin there is cooler than he’d thought, and he decides that he’s past the worst of his illness after all. 

“I’m going to sit here for a while and finish my brandy,” he tells him.

“The whole bottle?”   
  
“Perhaps. I think I deserve it. Now, go to sleep, Newt. I’ll wake you when I go upstairs.”

Newt lays his head down on the cushion and lets his eyes drift closed. “Happy new year,” he murmurs.

“Happy new year,” Percival replies. 

Then he settles down, his back to the sofa, Newt’s hand drooping down to rest on his shoulder. He pours himself another snifter of brandy, listening to the fireworks thunder outside as he watches the fire and thinks of the future they’re both going to make. One very different to what’s gone before, and one which he resolves with great solemnity and no small amount of anticipation, will be a better one for the both of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me throughout this one, friends. I've really appreciated your company and your feedback throughout, and I hope these fics have brought you a smile or two over the festive season. I'll be honest, I'm absolutely astonished I managed to keep up with one a day, so I guess that's somewhat of a Christmas miracle for me!
> 
> I hope you have a happy new year, and that 2020 brings you everything 2019 did not. Here's to a better year for us all, full of happiness and success. See you in the new year. :]


End file.
